


Song of the Deathless

by DarkIceAngelFlare



Series: The Alternative Lives of Leario [1]
Category: Da Vinci's Demons
Genre: Angst, Fluff, M/M, Reincarnation, The Book of Leaves, soul mates of choice
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-08
Updated: 2016-12-22
Packaged: 2018-05-25 12:38:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6195436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkIceAngelFlare/pseuds/DarkIceAngelFlare
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From childhood, Count Riario and Leonardo have had strange dreams of an alternative life. Lovers of strange men, creators of new worlds, their dream selves are happier than either of them have ever been. But they were just that: dreams. Then Girolamo and Leonardo meet for the first time and start to question the very foundations of their existence. </p><p>Canon-divergent take on the creation of the Book of Leaves. Mostly made-up wish fulfillment inspired by Peter Hollen's cover of 'Song of Durin'. But really, how cool would it be if the people chasing after the Book were the ones who created it?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Life is so busy for me in my (hopefully) graduation year. But I can't stop thinking about this series, so yeah... Here's another WIP, this time about my personal headcanons that are junk, but I'm going to write it anyway!

For as long as he could remember, Leonardo has had these dreams of another life. Of being a king, a traveller, a saint, a sinner, a prisoner, a warrior, a friend, a lover… the list went on. There is only one constant in the dreams other than himself: a handsome man whose voice in his most intense dreams rasped against the hollow of his throat, whose sharply defined features brought comfort to both Leonardo’s dreams and reality.

(How many pages has he spent sketching the man’s likeness? Every portrait a different window into this companion he has in whatever messed up life his subconscious believes in.)

The language in the dreams is something he haa never heard of, yet Leonardo understands every word. The ones that stick with him the most are those he used to describe his companion:  _Lover; Moon; Consort; Beloved._ The depth of feeling he has for this imaginary man startles him, for never in reality had he entertained romantic ideas.

Some dreams are repetitive, while others he only catches glimpses of. One of his favourites is of his young self crying under a table while some mechanical project sputtered dying sparks. Frustration and despair taint the dream, until another small boy crawls under the table to his side.

_“Are you okay?” the stranger asks, brown eyes wide with curious concern._

_“Nothing works! I try so hard but I can’t stop thinking. My hands are too slow! Turn it off! Make it work! Make it go away!” Leo’s child self in the dream is hysterical, and clutches far too tightly to the other male._

_The boy is shocked, but wraps Leo’s childish body in a hug. A song comes forth from the stranger’s mouth. It’s about distant seas and new horizons, about hope despite despair. The undeveloped voice is high but beautiful, and it’s enough to calm Leo down._

_“Mummy used to sing to me when I was upset,” the boy confides. “Do you feel better?”_

_Leo nods, but doesn’t move. He’s still cradled against the stranger’s chest and the warmth is addicting. “I miss my family,” he whispers._

_“…Me too.” The boy hugs him tighter. “But we will get stronger and then we will go home.”_

_They sit in companionable silence for a while, until Leo asks, “Will you be my friend? I don’t have any yet.”_

_“Okay,” the boy smiles shyly. “My name here is Jiro.”_

_The moon_ , Leo’s mind translates and he wakes up in his bed in Florence, his unused opium stash still clutched in his hand. Whatever darkness that drove him to the drug the night before is forgotten, lost among the lingering notes of Jiro’s song.

* * *

Girolamo dispassionately slits the teenager’s throat, ignoring the pleas that came from his victim’s lips. It is part of his job to dispose of the Pope’s playthings when they stopped amusing him, though the Holy Father usually leaves him with just a corpse. Nevertheless, the process is like second nature to him now, and his men don't even need the order to remove the body from the Vatican.

He watches them from his room window as they bury it in an unmarked patch of land. His gaze turns to the stars, their cool light causing his thoughts to drift away from his plans to end Milan’s alliance to Florence. Instead he is reminded of his dream last night, one of the many that have haunted him since he was a child.

_“Remember this heavenly view!” the stranger says, his outstretched arms gesturing at the sky. “Someday we shall return here, and save our people during their hour of need.”_

_“You need to stop creating empires wherever you go,” Girolamo says in the dream. There’s a natural teasing tone in his dream self’s voice that is never echoed in reality._

_The other man laughs and turns around, allowing Girolamo to see the details of the face he had come to know so intimately. There is a smudge on one smiling cheek but as always, it’s the radiance in his dark eyes that attract Girolamo’s attention. Without a thought, his dream self moves forward and runs a bejewelled hand through the man’s waist length hair._

_“You’re due for a cut,” Girolamo says._

_“I’m due for a kiss,” the man replies, before cupping Girolamo’s face. For every gold ring Girolamo’s dream self wears, there is a matching one on the stranger. “Do you mean that? Do you want us to settle down?”_

_“Hardly. I merely meant that we have been here for far too long already.”_

_“What’s the rush?” the man’s hands slide lower. “We have all of eternity to explore the world.”_

_“We might not change,” Girolamo says slowly, “but the world constantly does.”_

_The man fingers the chain around Girolamo’s neck for a moment. It matches the one on the stranger’s bare chest, right down to the key that hangs on its end. Finally he says, “Then pick a direction, my Jiro, and we shall go wherever it may lead.”_

There is a brush of heat against his lips and Girolamo forcibly rouses himself from the daydream (or is it a memory?). His mouth forms familiar prayers as he asks for forgiveness for his sinful thoughts. He is no sodomite, and he refuses to dream of kissing imaginary men.

Shamefully, the last thought he has before falling asleep is to wonder: ‘Why does he call me his moon?’


	2. The Hanged Man

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for some minor first season spoilers.  
> I know it's been forever... but at least it's finally here? This year has been quite hectic so I haven't been able to find the time to write much, but I hope to get this story going soon. It shouldn't take too long, since I don't plan on going into s3. 
> 
> This chapter mostly follows canon episode 1, so if you recognise the dialogue, it's probably from there. You might also notice that I've changed up the tense and format a bit, since last time it was a bit of a rush.
> 
> Thank you for all the kudos and follows, and especially for the comments! meridian_rose, AngelofGallifrey, enkiduu and AngelFirenze, you all rock!!

“Tell me, Leonardo: what’s your earliest memory?” Vanessa’s smile is as playful as her naked body. “What’s your greatest fear?”

His hand doesn’t pause in its work, intent on bringing her likeness to life in the bright daylight. His mind diverges, and he just holds himself back from asking her to be more specific about what she means. The breeze rushing through the undergrowth and tugging at Vanessa’s ribbons brings to mind unfurled banners – blue and red – and a sceptre touching his head. A voice says quietly, “A great destiny awaits him,” but Leonardo knew logically that none of that happened in this lifetime.

Instead, he shares a memory that he does know to be true: his mother and the eagle. She badgers him again for a fear, even as they kiss. Leo lets a truth tumble out.

“I fear I might never know the difference between reality and dreams.”

Later, Leonardo mentally twists over the experiment of the day. The flying contraption was a success, though he should build it stronger next time. Nico was still huffy about it, and had throughout the day occasionally muttered on about how he almost died. Honestly, his apprentice needs to have more faith!

_“This armour won’t be able to withstand an arrow, never mind a throwing axe!”_

Ah, Jiro again.

_“How did I even let you talk me into wearing this?”_

_Leo’s dream self was seated on a bed, flipping an axe while running his eyes appreciatively over the dark man wearing a thin chainmail shirt… and nothing else. “When have you ever complained about me getting you out of your clothes?”_

_“I’ve lost count,” Jiro said drily. “And removing my clothes is not the issue. It’s the ridiculous things you make me wear that I am taking offense to.”_

_“You will never let the skirt incident go, will you?”_

_“I happen to be thinking about the corset, but there are plenty of examples. Case in point.” Jiro gestured at his current attire._

_“It’s perfectly safe.”_

_Jiro scoffed._

_“Do you trust me?”_

_“Would I be wearing this if I didn’t?”_

_“I love you.” Leo followed up his declaration by throwing the weapon._

* * *

Girolamo’s moves are practised as he tells the Pope of the Medici’s plans in the wake of the Duke of Milan's assassination. His Holiness looks somewhat decent as he smirks at Girolamo’s careful words.

It is then that Lupo interrupts. “The Turk is in Florence. He is after the Book of Leaves.”

Girolamo doesn’t flinch but his expression is cold. He knows his father believes that he is obsessed with the book, but he can't break free from its pull. Not since his first real lead was pressed into his hand and he saw the cold metal key in the dimming light of twilight. Its distinct shape made it memorable: his dreams had shown himself and his companion wearing it often.

The Book by itself was a thrilling idea. The power play it promises exhilarates as much as frightens him. But in the early hours of morning, blinking away sleep and dreams, Girolamo is sometimes filled with anger and despair as he turns over the issue of the Book. When he is more awake, he usually blamed the feelings on the fruitless hunt for it, and his father’s growing apathy for the quest. But these emotions are more instinctive than rational, a fact compounded by his inability to even look at the Book's singular page that fascinated Lupo.  Each time Girolamo hesitated just out of its view; each time he was overcome by rushing negative emotions; each time he turned away.

But he continues to chase after the Book’s elusive shadow; a search made more urgent by its connection to his dreamscape. It is unacceptable to have so many vices, but now he has a way to find the value of at least one. The key is meaningless without knowledge of the lock, but if the key is so vividly real, then what else could be true?

* * *

His fingers are smudged with charcoal. Pages scatter across his desk and cover the floor. He would hang some up, but the opium is already dulling his reflexes and most of the space was taken up with images drawn from his dreams. Another equation runs through Leonardo’s mind and comes to nothing. His hand continues to draw and redraw the Columbina but nothing seems to work. His brain is rushing, even with the opium slowing it down.

_I try so hard but I can’t stop thinking!_

Isn’t that what he said to Jiro? In his dreams, anyway. But there’s no song to save his sanity tonight. His eyes are drawn to the sketch he hung recently, of the Moon who isnever far from his thoughts when he is alone. Leonardo grabs the drawing and adds a beard on a whim. It fills the jaw much better this way, anyway.

He takes another puff of poppy and another crack at the bird’s design. He is not sure when he drifts off, or when Vanessa’s question plagues his mind.

_What’s your greatest fear?_

Is it the cave? The blood that covered him after a sheep when astray? The trauma that robbed him of his memory of _how_ and _why_?

Or is the cold that permeates his soul; the darkness that taints the air in the tomb? His lips are bitter with poison, his body nearly bare except for the weight of gold. Is it the feel of marble against his skin that calls for him to return, to respond to the voice that had once begged him to return?

_Come back, come back, don’tleavemealone, YOULIED –!_

Leonardo awakens with a scream. His limbs fly and twitch frantically as he shakes off the phantom ache of death. What was that? Where had he gone to? He is barely holding himself together when Andrea scrambles in and demands answers that Leo doesn’t have.

Leonardo’s eyes search through his drawings, trying to find one that could ground him or give him warmth. Anything, really, to hold his rattled soul to the body he walked in. But there is none real enough, just Andrea scolding him about the opium that is the only thing that helped most nights. He doesn’t hold back his snapped responses, his angry tirade against his mind that refuses to bend to his will, and his abilities that refuse to match his mind. He screams, destroys and finally slumps so Andrea can deliver his caring disappointment before he too leaves.

 _It is not me who leaves,_ he thinks. His mother, his father, lovers, friends… they are dust on the wind, flying past him after temporary entanglements with his silhouette. He digs his fingers into his skull to choke back the despair. _It is never me_. Even Jiro, a figment of his delicate psychological state, is useless when it really matters.

Yet his heart yearns for a song.

* * *

Girolamo tosses his head, feeling sweat drip past his collar. Political intrigues are all well and good, but there is nothing quite like training with his men to make him feel alive in his body. The bond of camaraderie is palatable in the air as they all take a quick break from his gruelling drills that few begrudge him for, even with the pounding heat. He unbuttons his shirt and shrugs it off before gulping down some water.

_You look good like that._

He was used to ignoring his imaginary friend.

Soon he will ride to Florence and then begin to capture the city. These men are seen as little more than hired thugs, supposedly only his due to the deep pockets of the Vatican. Let the petty people keep their lies. Perhaps they were once mercenaries, but their loyalty is now to him. They brought him the bribes offered to them, and learnt quickly when it was right to accept and when to decline; always, the information is sent to him. He knows their individual quirks; when to push; when to draw the line. If he asks them to kill, none will hesitate. If he asks them to die, they will ask him to make their deaths count. As if there could be any doubt of that.

He was made to be a soldier, but he was born to command.

_You can be so much more than a warrior._

He cannot imagine a better place to rid the world of its depravity.

* * *

In his hand, Leonardo holds a card described as ‘The Hanged Man’. It tingles at the back of his mind, but that could just be the wine. “Tell me,” he orders his friend. “Don’t hold back.”

Zoroaster may be a rapscallion, but he is a champion showman. “This one,” he says, taking back the tarot card, “represents sacrifice. Suspension between life and death. And then, perhaps, a great awakening.” There is emphasis on the final word, dragged on as Zoro melodramatically hopes to fool the artist before him.

Again, something niggles at the back of Leonardo’s mind. He shuts it down quickly, the taste too similar to the opium dream he had the previous night. He latches onto Zoro’s previous comments instead, and deflects entirely to focus on the idea of being a military engineer. What luck to even consider it! How much realer would he be to bringing his inventions into being?

* * *

The Turk is speaking and dredging up memories Leonardo had ‘suppressed’. Why is everything suddenly compounding around him now? Is it truly destiny, as this ‘son of Mithras’ (whatever that means) claimed? His head is pounding, and his mouth too full with words to choke even one out. The drug he was given is strong and soon sends him reeling back onto the stone floor of the Roman ruins. Foreign tongues whisper around him, yet every one he understands.

“I am Mithras. I have travelled long and far to see you, my ancestor, with my own eyes. Come and share a drink with me.”

“Am I to forever be the moon to your sun, stealing what little light I can just to be seen?”

“Time is a river, and for you, there is no end in sight.”

“You are part of one of the Jewels of God, young king. Find the other piece - your Chosen - and the earth will become your heaven.”

“I fear what you will become without me, Jiro.”

“Maestro!”

The last jerks him back to awareness. Nico is shaking him, while Zoro poses in the doorway. Leonardo feels dusty, old and tired, but the sensations are soon replaced by confusion. First by the altered surroundings and the missing Turk, but soon followed by Lorenzo’s search for him. Then triumph fills him, and everything else is pushed aside.

His streak of wins continues when Lucrezia Donati ends up in his bed. She flirts, laughs and asks after his designs. Then she mentions love, and it is like a bucket of cold water unleashed above him. Leonardo does not do love, not even for women with sweet smiles and kind eyes like Lucrezia and Vanessa.  

“You’re the third person this week to lecture me on fate,” he says instead of validating her ridiculous claim, and his eyes seek out one of his sketches pinned to the wall.

“Then perhaps it’s time you started listening.”

He lingers on the picture of Jiro walking out of the shadows, dressed in a long cloak of black. “Perhaps.”


End file.
